


Flying too close to the sun

by viverella



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flight Attendants, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viverella/pseuds/viverella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve is a flight attendant and Bucky keeps showing up on his flights and they fall in love without meaning to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying too close to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> because Sam said “I never said pilot” and Steve would make the sweetest flight attendant ever and if TWS!Bucky weren’t a killing machine he would probably be just broody enough to be a mysterious writer and I thought _WHY NOT???_ (read: catws has taken over my life and I hate everything) also forgive me if my characterization is off this is my first time writing about these babies I did my best 
> 
> (title borrowed from Bastille)

It’s all Nat’s fault, really. 

Steve thinks he probably shouldn’t be surprised at this point. After all, he’s been working the route between DC and LA with her for two years by now, and in that time, the only crazy things in his life ever seem to come from Nat. 

It’s really just that Nat has this tendency to try to set him up with someone every couple days (“You just seem so _lonely_ ,” she insists, even though he holds that he’s just fine, really, he doesn’t need anyone taking care of him. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”). And one morning, they have an early flight out to LA, and Steve is welcoming passengers onto the plane, and this guy with brown hair pulled back into a small, loose ponytail walks on. He’s got that vaguely lost look on his face that people often have when stepping onto an airplane for the first time in too long, the expression of someone who wants to find their seat as quickly as possible with minimal human interaction. It’s a look that Steve has become very adept at recognizing in his years as a flight attendant, and he knows by now that these people are the ones you approach and ask if they need help, because they’ll only end up slowing everyone down in their refusal to ask for help and a plane full of frustrated passengers is the last thing anyone wants.

“Can I help you find your seat?” Steve asks, his usual warm smile settling onto his face (even on the first day of training, his instructors had told him that it was like he was born to do this job; his smile was so infectious). 

The guy stares blankly at him for a second before catching himself and agreeing, “Yeah, sure.”

Steve looks at the guy’s ticket, noting that he’ll be in Steve’s cabin for the flight. “Seat 21C is going to be on your left,” Steve tells him. “It’s an exit row seat. I hope that’s okay.”

The guy nods and thanks Steve and moves along to his seat, shoving a heavy-looking messenger bag underneath the seat in front of him. 

Nat sticks her head out from the first class cabin and hums in approval. “He’s cute,” she says in Steve’s ear, just quiet enough not to be overheard by passengers, and really, Steve swears that she must have some sort of internal radar that goes off every time someone cute walks into range. 

“Stop that,” Steve says in the wearied tone of someone who has had this conversation way too many times. “You can’t just set me up with passengers you think are attractive. I’m pretty sure there are rules about that.”

Nat rolls her eyes at him. “I’m just saying,” she says. “It’s a five and a half hour flight. That’s plenty of time to get to know someone. For all you know, he could be your soulmate.”

Steve laughs, incredulous that after all this time, she’s still so persistent about finding someone for him. “You don’t even know him,” he says. 

“Neither do you,” she points out. That smirk that’s half serious, half daring him to challenge her is playing at the corners of her mouth. “He could be perfect for you, and you’d never know if you didn’t talk to him.”

“Right,” Steve says, shaking his head at her. 

She laughs and throws him a wink before ducking back into the first class cabin. Steve sighs and turns back to greeting passengers as they come in, and later, when he’s doing his final takeoff checks and goes to the exit rows to go through the motions of asking for assent from each of them, he feels a lump in his throat that he very purposefully ignores because no way is he letting Nat get to his head like that. And as he asks the exit row passengers if they’re willing and able to assist the crew in an emergency, he most certainly does _not_ let himself get nervous about speaking to the guy with the messy brown hair and tired blue eyes, because that would just be ridiculous. 

\---

This mystery guy flies between LA and DC three more times before Steve notices that he somehow always seems to be showing up on Steve’s flights. Privately, Steve wonders how long this guy has been making these trips and why Steve has never noticed him before (Steve has, after all, been working this route for quite some time now). He wonders what this guy does for a living and why it requires him to fly between these two cities so much, but this guy is a complete stranger and Steve figures that asking him about his personal life would probably come off as creepy instead of curious. He wonders if this guy even remembers him and wonders why it feels so important to him that the guy does remember and feels even creepier for obsessing so much over someone he doesn’t know at all. 

\---

“Hey.”

Steve turns from where he’s restocking the beverage cart after making his rounds and offering everyone something to drink. The guy is leaning against the divider separating the galley from the passenger area. He’s taken off his jacket for the flight, and Steve can just barely see two juts of red ink peeking out from under his shirt sleeve, a star maybe. 

Steve smiles. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, um, do you guys have any napkins or something?” The corner of the guy’s mouth lifts up into a polite and almost apologetic smile. “I spilled water on my notebooks and I’d rather not see them ruined.”

“Of course,” Steve says, surprised that a passenger actually came up to ask for help instead of waiting for him to come to them. He grabs a handful of napkins and offers them, saying, for no other reason than to say it, “You know, you can just press the call button next time, if you want. It is actually my job to bring you whatever you need.”

The guy’s smile melts into something more genuine and warm, and Steve notices how much younger and less tired he looks when he’s smiling and wonders what it is that’s got him looking so worn out all the time. 

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing than things that I could easily do myself,” the guy says, and his voice is soft and a little rough around the edges but not unkind. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, because it’s true, because he means it. It’s rare to have a passenger who’s this little trouble. “Have a nice flight, and let me know if I can get you anything else.”

The guy raises his eyebrow just a little, just a twitch, and the corners of his mouth curl in a way that makes Steve’s chest feel funny, like he’s a kid again and still has asthma and is about to start gasping for air at any moment. 

“Will do,” the guy says and slinks back to his seat, feet padding silently down the aisle in a fluid rush of motion. 

When they land at LAX, Steve refuses to let himself be disappointed that his mystery man didn’t ask for anything else for the duration of the flight.

\---

Five flights in, Steve still doesn’t know much of anything about this guy. And what little he does know is superficial and meaningless, and it’s ridiculous that he could be this curious about a complete stranger, but he can’t help it. It’s like there’s something hidden in that close-lipped smile, something secret in the way his eyes flick to Steve’s and then dart away just as quickly. 

What Steve does know is that the guy always has the same seat – 21C – and he always looks vaguely like he just rolled out of bed, looking exhausted and a little spacey around the eyes, wearing a fatigue jacket that looks like it was hastily thrown over whatever t-shirt he had at hand. He’s quiet, absolutely wonderful compared to the usual commotion of the plane. Next to the crying babies and rude teenagers and the occasional motion-sick passenger, this guy is a _blessing_ , and Steve can’t help the way his shoulders sag a little in relief whenever he sees the guy boarding the plane, because at least if nothing else goes well, he’ll at least have one passenger who isn’t awful (or at least that’s what he tells himself when Nat shoots him meaningful looks each time the guy boards).

“You should find out what his name is,” Nat says one day as they’re waiting for passengers to board. 

The mystery guy isn’t even on this flight, and it bothers Steve that he knows who Nat is talking about anyways. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. 

Nat rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “If you’re going to make goo-goo eyes at someone for almost six hours every month, you should at least know what his name is,” she insists.

“Why do you care about this so much?” Steve asks. And then he adds, “And I have _never_ made goo-goo eyes at him.”

She laughs and then, just a touch more seriously, touches a hand to his shoulder. “I just want you to be happy,” she says in a rare moment of earnestness. 

“I’m fine,” Steve says, bewildered by her sudden concern for him.

“Do you really think that’s the same thing?” she asks softly. 

She slips away before Steve can fully process the weight tucked into the spaces between the words. He’s distracted for the rest of the flight, and that’s Nat’s fault too. 

\---

As it happens, Steve doesn’t actually have to ask for the guy’s name after all. 

It’s a Sunday morning flight back to DC from LA, and the plane is particularly crowded, full of busy people in suits rushing to get back to Washington before the workweek begins. His mystery man is easy to pick out in the crowd, tattered jeans and beat up Converse sneakers standing out amongst all of the well-pressed slacks and shiny black shoes. For once, Nat isn’t there to bug him about talking to the mystery guy, as she’s too busy up in first class hanging up suit jackets and getting the all of the Very Important Businesspeople drinks before the plane takes off. 

As Steve is directing a couple people to their seats, he sees, out of the corner of his eye, someone bump into his mystery man in their rush to get to their seat, and the guy drops the books and handful of pens he was holding onto the floor. Steve rushes to go help him pick his things up without even thinking about it, telling himself once he realizes what he’s doing that he’s doing this because it’ll speed the process up and clear the little traffic jam that will result from this, and really, he’s just doing his job. 

“Thanks,” the guy says when Steve crouches down to help him pick up his things. 

Steve smiles. 

“That’s a lot of notebooks you got there,” Steve observes as he hands a couple books back to the guy. They’re both old, tattered things that look like they’ve been carried around well past their time. “You a writer or something?”

The guy laughs and it’s light, but there’s something perhaps a little bitter lingering just beneath the surface. “Or something,” he says. 

Steve furrows his eyebrows. “You’re not a writer?” he asks, confused. 

“Depends,” the guy says, and there’s that smile again, the one that makes Steve’s chest tight like he’s twelve again and he’s run too many laps. “What do you call a writer who hasn’t actually written anything in a couple years?”

Steve laughs, and somewhere in the back of his head, there’s a little voice telling him that he should walk away now and actually do his job and let everyone he’s holding up get to their seats, but instead, he finds himself asking, “Anything I might have read?”

The guy shrugs. “Do you like spy novels?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Sometimes,” he admits.

The guy gives him a thoughtful look, as if unsure of what he’s about to say. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he says finally. And then there’s something playful, almost daring, in his eyes. “Look me up when you land.”

“Maybe I will,” Steve says, and he lingers just a moment too long before he realizes what he’s doing and internally shakes himself, because he must look like an idiot. He smiles, ignoring the way it feels suddenly awkward on his face, and says, “Have a good flight.”

He retreats back to the flight attendant area just a bit too quickly and is hoping to have a moment to himself to gather his thoughts, but Nat, damn her, appears out of nowhere with a smirk on her face and her arms crossed, demanding to know everything. 

“His name is James,” Steve says, because he knows by now it’s easier to just go along with Nat’s antics than to fight her because she’s never one to give up. “He’s a writer.”

Nat raises an eyebrow. “A writer, huh?” she says thoughtfully. “I bet he doesn’t go by ‘James.’ That wouldn’t be very writerly of him.”

“Like you could possibly know that,” Steve says, exasperated. 

She laughs and suggests, “Why don’t you ask him about it?”

\---

Steve, because he’s pathetic and has no life (not that he would ever admit that to Nat), actually does go and look up this James Buchanan Barnes when he lands in DC and drags himself back to his apartment. 

His apartment really isn’t much really, but then again, he does spend a lot of his time traveling, splitting his time between here and Los Angeles, so it’s not so sad that his apartment is only sparsely furnished with the essentials, bare and simple and just enough that Steve can sleep and lounge around relatively comfortably on his days off. Steve drops his bags by the door of his bedroom and strips down before doing anything else, because spending several hours on a plane is enough to make Steve feel the need to shower as soon as possible. He throws on a pair of sweatpants afterwards and collapses on his bed with his laptop and procrastinates by checking his email, various social media feeds, and even checks the news before finally caving and looking up Barnes’ name. 

Steve spends an embarrassingly long time online glancing through Barnes’ Wikipedia page, his Goodreads page, and various reviews of his books that night. It turns out that Barnes has written over a dozen novels, all indeed falling into the general genre of spy fiction as he claimed, and he’s actually rather well known in the genre, though he’s notoriously secretive about his personal life and is rarely seen in public (which is probably why Steve didn’t recognize him at all). Most of the books fall into the time period of the Cold War, many revolving around American spies undercover in the USSR and vice versa, and as Steve reads the summaries and reviews for each of them, finds himself growing more and more curious about it all. And really, he means to just order one book, the one that has the most favorable reviews, just to see what Barnes’ writing is like, but somehow, he ends up ordering every single book that Barnes has ever written. 

After the order goes through, Steve stares at his laptop for a long moment before he slams it shut and lies back on his bed, wondering when his life became such a disaster. 

\---

It only takes Steve a few weeks to read through all of Barnes’ books. And maybe that says something about him that he has so much free time and no plans, but he chooses not to think about it and instead focuses on trying not to feel so weird about essentially stalking Barnes (who he doesn’t even _know_ , what the _hell_ , Steve, this is getting way out of control) through his books. As it turns out, for as much as Barnes looks like a mess most of the time, his writing is actually quite compelling, with beautifully structured prose and well-developed characters who Steve finds himself caring about just a little too much. Even more impressively, even though Barnes’ books all seem to revolve around the same general era of espionage, none of them feel repetitive or like Barnes just rehashed the same plot to get another book out. And even though spy fiction isn’t necessarily known for being terribly meaningful, Barnes’ writing feels extremely thoughtful somehow, careful like he’s all too aware of the facts in history, like he’s actually trying to be as accurate as possible, never mind that most of his readers probably don’t care. 

When Nat asks him about it as they’re going through security one day (because she somehow knows everything about his life, even if he doesn’t tell her anything), she’s quietly curious in that way that she gets when she’s trying to figure Steve out. 

“Are his books any good?” she asks.

Steve shrugs, trying to come off as casual as possible and not like he’s spent the better part of the past three weeks reading everything Barnes has ever published. “They’re alright,” he says. “I like them.”

Nat hums thoughtfully. 

“You should read them,” Steve suggests, which makes Nat raise her eyebrows, clearly skeptical. Steve reaches into his bag and pulls out one of the books, ignoring the look she gives him for having Barnes’ books at hand like that, and offers it to her, “I’m serious. I think you’d like them. It’s all Cold War and Russian spies; you love that stuff.”

And Steve knows that last bit is true, half because Nat is Russian and half because she studied history in college, specializing in Cold War politics. He knows that she’s spent countless hours reading up on the USSR, just for fun, just because she thinks it’s interesting, and she even confessed to Steve one night after too many drinks that when she was younger, she once dreamed of being a spy, maybe joining the CIA. He can see the moment she caves, her desire to hassle him breaking away under the weight of curiosity, and she takes the proffered book, albeit slightly reluctantly. 

She sighs. “You know me too well, Steve.”

\---

Sam, because he likes making Steve fuss, of course says to him one night over drinks some months into this whole ordeal, “You know, I think I agree with Nat.”

And it shouldn’t surprise Steve that Nat told Sam about his situation with Barnes, because he knows that the two of them gossip about him behind his back all the time. Usually, it doesn’t really bother him, but their fixation on his fixation on Barnes is more than he wants to deal with right now. 

“Why do you guys care so much about this?” Steve asks, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

There was a high school class on a trip on his flight back to DC today, and he’s just had to deal with several hours of bratty teenagers harassing each other and getting in trouble and he even had to kick two kids out of the bathroom (the new mile high club members seem to be getting younger each year and really, how is that even a thing that people still do?). He almost didn’t let Sam talk him into going out for drinks, but it’s been a while since they’ve just hung out and even though they fly multiple flights together each week, Steve doesn’t really think that counts as quality time since Sam spends all his time up in the cockpit.

“You seem to care a hell of a lot,” Sam says (and god, _god_ that’s the saddest part of it all isn’t it, the way Steve has gotten so irrationally invested in a complete stranger?). “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“We talk,” Steve says, but even to his ears it sounds weak.

“Well?” Sam asks him expectantly. “Is he friendly to you?”

Steve shrugs. “Nat seems to think so. She keeps saying that this is how writers flirt,” Steve says across a laugh. “What does she know about writers anyways?”

Sam grins and leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe she dated a writer once.”

Steve shakes his head and stares at his beer, sloshing the amber liquid around the half-full glass. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, heavy and contemplative and just too concerned for Steve to handle. 

“Hey,” Sam says, and his voice is gentler now, his usual laughing undertone fading away to soft, kind concern. “Nat and I, we both just want you to be happy. I’m honestly just excited that you have something in your life to think about other than work.”

Steve frowns. He supposes that he’s never really thought of it that way.

“Talk to him. Have a real conversation,” Sam encourages. He smiles. “You never know; something good may come of this.”

\---

“You were right,” Nat admits. 

Steve looks over at her in surprise, stopping halfway through greeting a passenger as they board the plane. It’s such a rare thing, that he’s right and Nat’s wrong about something, because she’s always been the more realistic of the two (Steve’s never been able to quite let go of the rose-colored glasses that make him want to see the very best in things).

“The book,” Nat clarifies. She holds out the book that Steve lent her. “I liked it.”

He takes the book back from her and grins. She frowns at him. 

“Don’t you dare say I told you so,” she warns and ducks back into the first class cabin. 

Steve laughs at her retreating form and goes back to greeting passengers, thinking he’ll probably put the book away after he finishes getting passengers situated. What he doesn’t expect is the familiar mess of brown hair to duck through the door a few minutes later. Steve schools his expression into one of careful politeness, suddenly hyperaware that he’s still got Barnes’ book clutched in his hands.

“Welcome back, Mr. Barnes,” Steve greets. 

Barnes looks up and meets Steve’s eyes, letting a sliver of a smile slip over his face. 

“Thanks,” he says. His eyes flit away from Steve’s, and Steve can pinpoint the exact moment that Barnes notices the book, because his tired blue eyes brighten and the smile on his face suddenly turns slightly mischievous when he says, “You read my book.”

Steve smiles and wonders if it shows that he’s actually read all of Barnes’ books, read a few of them twice, even. 

“What’d you think?” Barnes asks, and his voice is still light and playful, but there’s something heavier lingering underneath, something serious and careful. 

Steve shrugs and makes a face, “Eh.”

And he’s not sure why he did it, why he chose to tease instead of answering honestly, but he’s immediately glad that he did, because then Barnes does something amazing. He _laughs_. He laughs, and it’s this wide, grinning, open-mouthed thing that lights up his whole face like a lantern, and for the first time, he looks genuinely _happy_ , like whatever makes his face look so exhausted all of the time doesn’t matter anymore, if just for this moment. Steve’s chest clenches uncomfortably, and he finds himself wishing, unreasonably, that he could always get Barnes to smile this way. 

“Thanks,” Barnes says, still laughing, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “I appreciate it.”

He’s still grinning when he turns away to go to his seat, and Steve calls after him, “Have a good flight, Mr. Barnes.” 

Barnes pauses and turns halfway back around to look over his shoulder at Steve. His face is thoughtful, like he’s not sure of what he’s going to say next. 

“Call me Bucky,” he says finally, quietly, and it sounds like a confession, a promise somehow.

Steve blinks in surprise, caught off guard by how suddenly personal this conversation feels. He catches himself before he lets himself stare in disbelief for too long and pulls a smile back onto his face, “Have a good flight, then, Bucky.”

Barnes— no, Bucky’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile too much and he turns to take his seat. Steve can’t quite manage to stop grinning like an idiot at Bucky’s back, a strange, warm feeling bubbling up in his chest. 

Nat suddenly appears by his shoulder to murmur in his ear as she smiles and greets passengers along with him, “You know, you’re totally right. He’s totally not flirting with you at all.”

Her voice is flat and sarcastic, and Steve sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“Shut up, Nat.”

She laughs, unfazed. “You know, you could do much worse.”

“ _Shut up_ , Nat.”

\---

It’s comfortable, Steve thinks, this thing that he has going with Bucky, or at least that’s what he tells himself as Nat and Sam continue to harass him about why he hasn’t done anything more than occasionally flirt with the idea of being any more forward about it all. It’s nice, what they’re doing, this weird back-and-forth thing, and Steve doesn’t want it to end, not so soon. Maybe he’s just scared of what could happen, of Bucky closing himself off because here’s Steve, someone he sees maybe once a month, about to confess something that isn’t quite love but could be given time, and that’s a terrifying thing. Maybe he just wants a little more time of Bucky not thinking he’s absolutely insane for becoming ridiculously attached to someone he has no right to be so preoccupied with. It’s just that as much as Steve likes his job, Bucky makes it so much more enjoyable, and there’s a definite thrum that runs through Steve’s veins for the rest of the day each time Bucky is on one of his flights, and Steve’s not quite ready to let go of that just yet.

\---

A few weeks later sees Bucky back in Steve’s flight cabin again, this time typing away frantically on a laptop instead of scribbling illegibly in one of his many notebooks, oddly out of character for him as far as Steve can tell. Steve says as much when he’s giving Bucky his usual beverage (coffee, black), and Bucky looks up at him through his ridiculously long eyelashes. 

Bucky shrugs. “Notebooks are for drafts and ideas,” he says. “Much to my publisher’s delight, I’m finally actually writing a manuscript for a new book.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Can I ask what it’s about?” he asks. 

“You can,” Bucky replies, and Steve can hear a smile in his voice even though he’s not looking up anymore. 

“But if you told me, you’d have to kill me?” Steve offers.

Bucky laughs, leaning his head back and letting his face open up like rainclouds after a storm. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.” 

Steve smiles, wondering if it could really be that easy to make Bucky smile like that, like nothing in the world could ever bother him, wondering if the same thing would work again. 

\---

It turns out that Bucky’s publisher is based in Los Angeles, while Bucky himself prefers DC more, because it’s quieter he says, it’s less, well, it’s less Los Angeles, and he needs that. But Bucky’s publisher is apparently extremely demanding and no-nonsense, and because Bucky hasn’t actually published a book in a couple years, his publisher – Pierce, was it? – is being especially difficult, making Bucky fly out to Los Angeles every month or so to check up on him and make sure he’s meeting deadlines. Bucky complains about it like it’s the worst thing in the world, and Steve expresses his sympathy every time Bucky brings it up, but it’s never as sincere as he means for it to be. Steve almost asks a few times why Bucky doesn’t try to get a new publisher, but he supposes it’s not really his place, and anyways, things are good as they are and Steve likes having an excuse to see Bucky on a semi-regular basis.

\---

There’s this one week when Steve isn’t expecting to see Bucky, because he just flew back to DC a week and a half ago. And yet, as Steve greets passengers as they come in through the door, there Bucky is, heavy messenger bag slung over his shoulder. But the thing that gets Steve the most, the thing that makes him feel like his heart is about to fall out of his chest, is the fact that Bucky looks really, _really_ good. Not that he doesn’t look good usually, but Bucky usually looks good in that just-rolled-out-of-bed, struggling artist way. Today is different. Today, instead of his usually scraggly mess of hair, his hair is cut short and slicked back, and instead of looking like he just threw on whatever he could reach when he woke up that morning, he’s wearing a sharp charcoal suit that looks like it belongs on a red carpet, not a commercial flight. Everything about him is clean-cut and sleek and so much the opposite of what Bucky usually is that Steve momentarily forgets how to speak. 

“Hey,” Bucky says as he boards the plane. 

Bucky’s comment snaps Steve back into his right mind again. Steve puts on a neutral smile like he hasn’t just realized that he really, really could not have gone another day without seeing Bucky so beautiful and polished like this. 

“Welcome back, Bucky,” Steve says as levelly as he can manage. He nods at Bucky’s new look. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky gives an embarrassed smile and rubs the back of his neck, fingers toying at the ends of his clearly recently cut hair, obviously uncomfortable being out of his usual attire. 

“Dinner with my publisher,” he says, sounding like it’s the last thing he wants to do. “He likes finding excuses to make me look, and I quote, ‘like less of a hobo.’ I think he thinks that making me go out with him to fancy restaurants every so often will encourage me to clean up my look more.”

Steve offers a laugh, because he knows that Bucky’s publisher is a touchy subject and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. Instead he says, “Well, if it makes a difference, you look nice.”

Bucky laughs, soft and a little less than happy but thankful nonetheless. “Thanks,” he says and at least sounds a little like he means it. 

Bucky smiles a little and turns to head to his seat, and Steve tries not to stare at the way Bucky’s well-tailored pants fit over the curve of his hips. Nat appears at Steve’s shoulder a moment later with a soft, appreciative whistle. Steve rolls his eyes at her. 

“What do you want?” he asks, because she only pesters him before takeoff if she has something specific in mind. 

Nat’s playful expression folds into something more careful, more guarded the way she gets when she’s about to tell Steve something he may not like to hear. She holds out a boarding pass for Steve to see. 

“Bucky got upgraded to first class.”

Steve looks at the ticket she just handed him. Seat 5D. Steve tries not to let himself frown. 

“Do you want to do first class today?” Nat asks. 

“What, and make it look like I’m following Bucky all over the plane?” Steve says, raising his eyebrows at her in disbelief. “I’m a big boy, Nat; I can handle not flying with him for one flight.”

Nat shrugs and gives his arm a light squeeze before heading back to first class. Steve frowns down at the ticket in his hand and takes a breath to steady himself before heading over to Bucky’s seat, trying to ignore the heavy weight that has settled in his stomach. When he reaches Bucky’s seat, Bucky’s already getting his laptop out and settling in, and he smiles a little at Steve when Steve approaches, making Steve’s chest clench uncomfortably in a way that feels greedy and selfish. 

“You’ve been upgraded to first class,” Steve says, going along with what he’s supposed to say instead of what he wants to say because he knows that if he says what he wants, it’ll sound petulant and childish. 

“Oh,” Bucky says, reaching out for the ticket slowly, as if he’s afraid this is some sort of trick. “Thank you.”

“If you want to gather your things, your seat is waiting for you,” Steve says, flashing a smile before turning to head back to the door where passengers are boarding. 

Steve’s not bitter at all as Bucky shoves his laptop back into his bag and makes his way up to the first class cabin. He’s certainly not _jealous_ when Nat greets Bucky – all the careful grace and subtly sweet smiles perfect for first class – and offers to take his coat. He’s not upset, not really, because that would be insane, but he can’t deny that he’s more than a little disappointed that he missed the opportunity to fly with a suit-clad Bucky (or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he ignores the sick feeling in his gut for the entire flight).

\---

“You need to tell him,” Sam says.

“Tell him what?” Steve asks, exasperated because he’s had this conversation way too many times by now.

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. _Something_ ,” he says, and his expression is gentle but serious. “Look, I know you, Steve. You’re not going to be a flight attendant forever. I know you’re working on getting your pilot’s license right now. What happens when you don’t have an excuse to see him anymore?”

Steve opens his mouth to reply but finds that he doesn’t have anything to say, because he’s known for a while that he’s something like half a year away from getting his certification to captain his own plane, because he’s very purposefully not thought about what that means for his nice, comfortable little arrangement that he has going on with Bucky, because actually doing something is just about as terrifying as not. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says after a long moment.

Sam rests a hand on Steve’s slumped shoulders. “You need to say something.”

\---

Steve sees Bucky a couple more times, and Bucky divides his time between typing frantically on his laptop as if he’s chasing down ideas before they get away from him and sneaking smiles at Steve when he walks by, like there’s some great big secret that only he and Steve know. Steve sees Bucky a couple more times and forgets that his time as a flight attendant will soon be ending or doesn’t remember to treasure it enough, and then Bucky disappears for a mysterious few months.

After one month, Steve thinks nothing of it (people’s schedules change sometimes, and Steve never expected Bucky to keep a regular schedule anyways). 

After two months, Steve begins to wonder (Did something happen? Should Steve be concerned?).

After three months, Steve stops eagerly looking up every time someone boards the plane, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mess of brown hair and that old, well-worn fatigue jacket (maybe he’s not flying this route anymore; maybe he’s not coming back). 

After four months, Steve doesn’t expect anything anymore and ignores the glances that Nat shoots his way (she was right, Sam was right, they were so, so right).

\---

“Chin up, Steve,” Nat says as she and Steve step onto the plane headed back to DC to ready it for boarding. She flashes him her famous close-mouthed smile that makes Steve wonder what she isn’t saying. “This is your last flight.”

Steve smiles. He should be happy about this, really; this is what he’s been dreaming about for what feels like forever. He’s finally passed all his tests and gotten certified to be a pilot, and he’s made it, he’s really, really made it. And yet, for some reason, he can’t quite bring himself to be as excited as he should be. 

Passengers start boarding some ten minutes later, and Steve welcomes them all with the ease of someone who has been doing this almost his entire adult life, calm smiles and chipper greetings falling from his mouth without much thought. Behind him, Nat flits about the first class cabin, poised and elegant and laughing delicately when appropriate because everyone expects her to be soft and feminine and no one is better at playing this game than her. Steve sighs as the plane slowly fills with the murmurs of people too far from where they want to (have to) be and thinks that yes, as much as he’s going to love being a pilot, he really is going to miss this. 

“Hey.”

Steve blinks out of his thoughts, startled by the familiarity of the voice. And there in front of him, after all these months, is Bucky, looking more exhausted than usual but no worse for wear, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Bucky,” Steve says in surprise, and then he catches himself and brings his expression back to one of politely interested smile. “It’s been a while since you last flew with us.”

Bucky laughs, a soft, tired thing, and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, my publisher basically put me on house arrest for the past few months,” he says wearily. “Wouldn’t let me leave LA until I finished my manuscript.”

Steve laughs sympathetically. He swallows the feeling resting on the tip of his tongue and says, “I hope you enjoy your flight home, then.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says as he turns to go to his usual seat. 

That sinking feeling that’s been sitting in Steve’s chest all morning suddenly crashes through the bottom of his ribcage. Steve thinks he would’ve been okay if Bucky hadn’t wound up on this flight to remind him of everything he’s been trying to ignore. He thinks that he would’ve been able to deal with the vague uneasiness and perhaps could’ve even gotten over it if Bucky hadn’t shown up and reminded him that yes, things are going to change and yes, this does in fact mean that he may never see Bucky again. 

“He’s back,” Nat observes, leaning against the divider between first class and coach. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, looking down at his shoes because if he doesn’t he’s afraid he’s going to end up staring at Bucky.

“What’re you going to do?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” Steve admits.

Nat is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “You should say something,” she insists.

“Say what?” Steve asks, because he’s played through this scenario in his mind before, and there has never been one ending that Steve has been able to think of that doesn’t end in utter, crushing embarrassment. 

Nat shrugs and looks up at him, eyes hard and demanding but somehow encouraging at the same time. 

“Just be honest,” she suggests.

“I’m always honest,” Steve says. 

He glances up at where Bucky is sitting, for once without his laptop or his various notebooks already pulled out of his bag for the flight. Nat follows Steve’s gaze. 

“Maybe not as honest as you’ve meant to be.”

\---

Somehow, Bucky must hear the news about Steve’s recent career change, because he shows up at the divider that separates the cabin from the galley again, just like that first day. 

“I heard you’re moving up,” Bucky says. “Congrats.”

Steve looks up, surprised because he hadn’t heard Bucky approach (has he always moved so silently?). 

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling a little. “Ten-year-old me is throwing a party right now.”

Bucky chuckles, the sound soft and low in his chest, and Steve notices that when Bucky looks down at the ground like this, he looks forlorn and lost and almost painfully young. Steve thinks absently that they must be around the same age, but Bucky alternately looks so much older and so much younger than him depending on the angle, and Steve wonders if something happened to make him this way. 

“Can I get you something?” Steve asks, breaking the silence that has settled around them like a heavy blanket. 

Bucky blinks, face confused and disoriented for a moment like he forgot why he came up here in the first place. 

“Uh, yeah, can I just get some water?” Bucky asks, and there’s a barely noticeable waver in his voice as if he changed his mind halfway through the question. 

Steve smiles and fills one of the little plastic cups, handing it off to Bucky with a napkin. Bucky nods in thanks and slinks back to his seat, leaving Steve to wonder if there was something else that Bucky meant to say, something more. But Bucky doesn’t come back for the rest of the flight and spends the majority of the flight listening to music and frowning at some unseen something as if he’s considering something carefully. Steve considers going by to check on him but eventually decides against it because he’s not sure if he’s even wanted. 

\---

The flight ends faster than Steve ever remembers a flight being, despite the obnoxious couple in row 16 and the sick guy in 31B and the crazy kids throwing food and drinks at each other in row 11. Steve feels mildly uncomfortable with it all ending like this, with him and Bucky just parting ways and neither of them saying anything about the strange undercurrent of unspoken energy between them in their every interaction. 

Bucky smiles at Steve as he exits the plane. “Good luck being a pilot,” he says.

Steve laughs, but it feels hollow in his chest. “Thanks,” he says. “Good luck with your book.”

And then Bucky ducks out of the plane and that’s that, and it’s like something heavy falls on Steve’s chest and pushes the breath out of him. Nat appears at his arm a few moments later after all of her passengers have gone. 

“Before you ask, I didn’t say anything,” Steve says. 

Nat sighs. “I figured, judging by the look on your face,” she says and leans her weight on his side a little, a gentle comfort. “You look like someone just kicked you in the chest.”

“Feels a little like it,” Steve admits, and before Nat can say that he really just should’ve told Bucky how he felt, he grabs a trash bag and goes to clean up some of the debris that the passengers have left in their wake. 

Steve can feel Nat’s eyes on his back, the worried weight of her gaze, but he ignores it and continues making his way down the aisle, picking up stray cups and crumpled up napkins. He hears Nat sigh and move about the cabin as well, straightening things out and cleaning up, but she thankfully doesn’t ask him anything more. Steve is grateful for the silence and goes through the cabin almost mechanically, going through the motions without thinking too much about it, until he gets to Bucky’s seat. 

He pauses, the weight of not having a way to see Bucky again fully washing over him. He reaches to pick up Bucky’s cup, and something catches his eye. He tosses the cup in the trash bag and crouches to pick up the napkin that just fluttered to the ground. There are little black spots on it, as if the ink of a pen bled through the thin material from the other side. Steve flips the napkin over and his heart nearly stops in his chest. The note reads: 

_Steve,_  
_Call me._  
_–B_

And then, at the bottom, Bucky has scrawled his phone number in his endearingly messy handwriting that looks like it was running away from Bucky as he wrote it. The uncomfortable feeling that’s been hovering over Steve all day suddenly lifts, and he wonders if he could really be this lucky. 

“You have to call him,” Nat says when she sees the note Bucky left for him. 

And for once, Steve doesn’t argue with her, mostly still overwhelmed and overjoyed by the fact that Bucky decided to be the braver of the two of them and actually do something, and he thinks to himself, maybe this is all actually going to turn out okay. 

\---

**Epilogue.**

“Come on, Buck, we’re going to be late,” Steve calls to the bedroom and then adds, for emphasis, “For your own party.”

It’s been almost a year since Steve called Bucky after getting home and five months since Bucky moved in with Steve and the empty corners of his bare apartment were filled up with various odds and ends that made it finally feel like home. It’s been almost three years since they first met and Bucky’s book is finally being published. Bucky had admitted somewhere along the way that Steve had been the one who finally sparked the inspiration for Bucky to actually write something new and that there may or may not be a character hidden away in that book just like Steve. Steve doesn’t bring this fact up much because it always makes Bucky squirm a little in embarrassment, but he feels privately pleased about the whole thing regardless. 

Not that they’re ever going to get to see the book being released if Bucky doesn’t hurry up and get dressed. Bucky’s been pacing around in his underwear for the past hour, trying to decide what the right thing to wear is, and as much as Steve appreciates the view, Bucky really just needs to decide so they can get going. 

“Hold on,” Bucky calls back, frowning at two suits that are almost exactly the same shade of grey. It’s better than the five suits Bucky had out originally, but apparently Bucky gets especially nervous around book launches and it makes him get stuck on little details like if this slightly darker grey conveys too serious of an attitude. 

Steve sighs and goes into the bedroom, walking over to Bucky and pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. 

“Both of those are just fine,” Steve says as soothingly as he can. “You’re going to look great regardless and boys and girls from all over will ooh and ah at you. Now get dressed. We have to get going soon or you really will miss your party.”

Bucky frowns and leans back against Steve’s chest, a warm, familiar weight, before sighing and going to pick out the slightly lighter suit (though really, the two are almost identical). He dresses quickly, movements swift and efficient in a way that you wouldn’t necessarily expect just by looking at him. He recently cut his hair short again because his publisher seriously does have this thing against Bucky’s long hair (he apparently claims it makes Bucky look less like a star author than homeless, and really it’s all just a huge mess when it comes to the two of them). Bucky pads back to the bathroom and fusses with his hair for a bit, still not entirely used to the short length, and Steve sits down on the bed to wait, knowing that it won’t take long now that Bucky has actually gotten himself in motion.

It’s been an interesting year, to say the least. Between Steve’s hectic schedule as a new pilot and Bucky’s odd hours editing his book in preparation for publication, it’d been difficult to coordinate their free time to spend time together in the beginning. But as the year went on and they fell into step more and more, it’d grown so easy between the two of them that Steve can barely remember anymore how he was able to spend so much free time alone. Bucky has carefully arranged his more flexible schedule around Steve’s flights, ensuring that they always have a few nights out of the week together, and Steve can’t believe that he ever thought what they had before, that odd dance in the period neither of them wanted to say anything, was anything close to nice, because he had no idea. He had no idea that it could be this wonderful, that it was possible to be so at peace in your own skin, but here they are, one year later, and Steve can’t imagine life with anyone else. 

“Hey,” Bucky says. He’s leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, and the yellow light spills out around him, illuminating the angles of his face and the sharp turn of his collar by his neck. 

Steve fights the smile that threatens to surface and makes a face instead. “Maybe you should’ve gone with the other suit.”

Bucky laughs, loud and easy and relaxed at Steve’s familiar teasing, and Steve is glad that the anxiety about his new book is gone, if only for a moment. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and the amusement is still playing at the edges of his voice. He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful, looking at Steve like he wants to memorize every detail of this moment, and then he says, softer now, “I have something for you.”

He drifts over to where Steve is sitting and reaches into the nightstand (his nightstand) and pulls out something wrapped in brown butcher paper. He holds it out for Steve, who takes it quizzically, and brushes away imaginary wrinkles from Steve’s suit jacket. 

Steve carefully lifts off the paper and finds in his hands a copy of Bucky’s latest book, _The Winter Soldier_. Bucky has been very secretive about the book for some reason, not letting Steve see any of it, claiming that when it was time, Steve would be able to see it and read it and judge all he wanted. The cover art is beautiful, sharp eyes peeking out through a smudge of black and a mess of hair, mysterious and menacing and exactly Bucky’s aesthetic when it comes to things like this. But it’s not just that; it can’t be because the cover art is nothing unexpected if you know Bucky like Steve does. No, no, it has to be something more that Bucky has been guarding. Steve glances up at Bucky, who is looking down at him expectantly and almost apprehensively, and then flips the book open, looking for whatever Bucky has been hiding from him. He pages through to the dedication page, and then he sees it, a wide grin rises on his face and he lets out a startled, pleased laugh. 

_For Steve: You make the winters just a little warmer._

Bucky makes a face at Steve’s smile. “It’s shit isn’t it?” he says, self-deprecating to cover up the embarrassment underneath. “I knew it was awful and corny. I should’ve just—”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, setting the book aside and standing to press a kiss to Bucky’s mouth. He smiles and even though the dedication _is_ corny and far too sappy, it’s somehow perfect, and Steve says earnestly, “I love it.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment like he doesn’t quite believe Steve, and then he smiles, only a little tentative now. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he admits, “But I wanted you to see it before everyone at the party spoiled it for you. I hadn’t found the right time to show you.”

Steve grins. “Mission accomplished,” he says and then he nudges Bucky towards the closet. “Now finish getting ready. We have to leave within the next five minutes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve’s fussing but dutifully goes to slip on his suit jacket and a pair of socks anyways, grabbing his nice shoes before heading to the door, Steve trailing behind and turning off all of the lights behind them. There’s a town car waiting outside Steve’s apartment to bring them to the book launch party, which is going to be hosted at some swanky hotel ballroom downtown because Bucky’s publisher knows people who know people. And later, later, when everything has died down and they return to their quiet little home, Steve will let Bucky bring him back to their bedroom and take him apart piece by piece. Later, Bucky will press beautiful strings of words into the curve of Steve’s neck, his wrists, his hips, thanking him without thanking him for being that sure, solid presence in his life. But for now, as they arrive at the hotel, Bucky shoots a mildly uneasy look at Steve, who slips his hand into Bucky’s and squeezes it reassuringly, and they emerge hand in hand from the car, a writer and his muse, and Steve thinks about how, after all this time, Nat turned out to be pretty right about the two of them after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have another half of an idea for a fic in this universe but idk if that's actually going to happen but anyways I'm really still trying to feel out these characters so I apologize if anything felt really off be kind to me uwu
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://nataliaromonoff.tumblr.com/) if you like!
> 
> ETA: now translated into Chinese, which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2434856)!
> 
> ETA #2: ah! now with bonus podfic!! check it out you guys! (link below!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Flying too close to the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531539) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)




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